Clearing of the Mind
by DarkJackal
Summary: An outlaw now, Gisborne does his best to get along with Robin's gang, until Much pushes him too far. A discovery in the forest may be more than Guy wished for.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Clearing of the Mind (1/2)  
><strong>Characters: <strong> Guy, Much, Little John, Allan (mentions Robin)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Up to season 3, episode 11  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Main characters owned by the BBC and Tiger Aspect. I get nothing out of this except an unhealthy enjoyment!  
><strong>Chapter Summary:<strong> _The morning after the events in "Fit to Burn" sees Gisborne alive and well...well maybe just alive is all he can expect, given the mood of the camp. Guy must deal with the challenges of working with Robin Hood's gang. This story contains a reference to events in Chapter 4 of "In the Devil's Thrall". _

Clearing of the Mind

Chapter I

The light slanting through the trees created a dappled pattern of shadow behind his eyelids. He shut his eyes tighter, until the flicker of light and shade became too great an annoyance. The coarse hair of the animal hide cover had done little to keep out the damp chill, and Guy awoke to aches; bruises and injuries given the course of a night to set in. Opening his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of enemies all around, sleeping or beginning to wake. For an unsettling moment, he could not remember how he came to be in the outlaws' camp. Ignoring twinges of protest from muscles which would rather remain inert, he rolled off his pallet, reaching in haste for the sword resting against it. The action was enough to jar his memory into functioning again.

Through the corridors of castles he and Robin Hood had fought on the same side, and had nearly died together because of a foolish gambit—one which he was as much to blame for agreeing to, as Robin was for believing in. But despite their failure, he remained with Hood and his gang, returning to the place they considered a refuge. Difficult as it was, he was supposed to think of them as allies now.

Yesterday, those allies looked at him like he should be caged, not free to roam in their midst. Before even arriving at the camp, he had questioned Robin about how they would receive him. Hood attempted to simplify the situation.

"As long as I choose to trust you, you'll have nothing to worry about," Robin had said dismissively.

"You will make that choice for _them_ too?" Guy had asked, unconvinced.

"Yeah," Hood replied, in a way that did little to assuage his fears. It was a risk putting his trust in a man who obviously said things before being certain.

"And you believe they will do so?" he pressed.

"Yes!" Robin said tersely, tired of being nagged, then added seriously, "Because they trust _me_."

Guy shook his head, unimpressed by his logic. But they had continued on.

He was not wrong to be skeptical. His alliance with the outlaws almost ended before it began. Hood's servant, Much, had been outraged, as had Little John. Even Allan a Dale had trouble letting bygones be bygones. But Hood was adamant they show him a trust he had yet to earn, and in the forest, Robin's whims were just short of law.

Guy knew he would still have to watch out for the woman, Kate. She had been more than willing to dispatch him yesterday, and might have done so, had Robin not stopped her. He had killed her brother, though it had not been entirely unprovoked—the boy had gone at him twice with a blade—but he doubted she would see it from his perspective.

There was only one who had not protested adding him to their unruly ranks. Brother Tuck seemed pleased, saying something about how bringing enemies to their side bolstered the righteousness of their cause. He could care less about the monk's "cause", but he would tolerate being a part of it, if it meant one less person wanted him dead.

His decision to join with Robin had been made, in large part, because he had nowhere else to go, now that his head was coveted by both King and Prince alike. If the villagers had even the smallest bit of backbone, they would turn him over, though he suspected few of them did.

Robin knew he needed his protection, but the opposite was not true. Hood would lose little by killing him, except a chance for betrayal. And he had to admit, that chance was still there. Robin had spared his life, and Guy told himself he would not take his, given the opportunity, but he had sworn no oath to the outlawed earl, nor would he ever.

He knew Robin's acceptance of him was motivated only by the revelation that they shared a relative. It had been unwelcome news, to say the least, and Guy had no concern for their newly discovered half-brother, but nonetheless he had agreed to help Hood liberate him from York dungeon. He had hoped that with the outlaw's help, and this relation who would owe them a debt, they could overthrow his vengeful sister Isabella—now Sheriff of Nottingham—and take the castle. He should have known better. Once freed, the bastard had betrayed them.

Exhausted by the pointless effort they had gone through, Guy had thrown himself onto his pallet the night before with little concern for what daybreak would bring. But at the sound of kettles banging, and Much complaining, the reality of his situation could no longer be ignored.

The camp was not the most horrendous place he had been, having been held in more than one dungeon within the past month, but it was plain they spent none of their plunder on luxury. It was hardly warmer than the surrounding forest, and when it rained, as it had overnight, the water trickled through the leaf shelter, slowly soaking everything. Smoke from the fire permeated the camp, and sooner or later all were obliged to huddle near it to dry out.

Stifling a shiver, he buckled on his sword belt. He wanted to talk to Robin. Find out if he had an alternate plan, and possibly share information that might be of use in forming one. Looking around the rest of the camp, he saw that Hood and the monk were not present, though fortunately, neither was the woman. That left him with three men who would rather decorate a tree with his corpse than talk to him.

Much was tending the fire, eying him warily. He debated whether it would be a greater discomfort to get close to him and the fire, or remain damp. The man still reminded him of a weasel; small and almost comical, but possessing a sharp bite when pushed. Making up his mind, Guy crossed the small space to stand in front of him.

"Where's Robin?" he asked brusquely.

"He'll be back soon," Much answered, nostrils flaring at his unwelcome proximity.

"So, you don't know where he is?"

Brows raised, Much retorted, "I didn't say I didn't."

"You're just not going to tell me," Guy said, trying hard to suppress his irritation.

Much glanced at him disdainfully. "You catch on quick."

He suspected the other two outlaws would be no more likely to supply him with the information he wanted. Catching his glance, Little John looked away swiftly. Guy had helped him fend off an enemy when at York, and that fact likely conflicted with the big man's notion of him as nothing but a murderer, but it hardly made them friends.

Sitting up and scratching his head, Allan greeted the day with a yawn. "Getting colder," he said, shrugging an animal hide around his shoulders.

"Maybe it's the company we keep," Much offered scathingly. Guy noticed that without his master present to scold him, the loyal dog snapped quite freely.

He kept his expression neutral. Much would have to work harder to get a reaction. Part of him liked that his presence was an irritation to the group. He supposed that said something about him, that he enjoyed conflict more than resolution.

Mouth forming into something that might, under different circumstances, be interpreted as a smile, Guy sat down on a bench close to Hood's servant, quietly invading his space. Much endured it for less than a minute. Then, with a noise similar to a squirrel being struck by an arrow, he threw the stick he was holding into the fire, and retreated to the other side of the camp.

Stretching casually, Allan tossed the animal skin he had been wearing onto the ground, then took up Much's place at the fire.

"How the mighty have fallen, eh Giz?" he said, more observation than taunt.

"At least _I_ had somewhere to fall from," Guy replied, his smile fading. He had more contempt for Allan than the rest of them. In part because he was a proven traitor, but more personally, because he had chosen service to Hood over him. Allan had been offered more than a man of his standing could have hoped for, but had thrown it away for this.

As if he had heard his thoughts, Allan said, "Hey, I know it looked like I ditched you back at Portsmouth, but now that you're with us, you have a chance to understand."

They had hardly spoken since he arrived yesterday, yet Guy was already tired of the conversation. "Understanding _you_ is not one of my priorities."

"I'm not meanin' _me_ in particular. I mean what Robin is trying to do."

"Of that, I have even less interest."

Allan darted a quick glance toward his companions, then said quietly, "Y' know, you shouldn't think of me as nothing but a Judas. If you remember, I saved your hide...," he looked over his shoulder conspiratorially, and lowered his voice further, "from this lot."

"When?" Guy asked skeptically. "Yesterday? It hardly looked that way to me."

"Nah, I assumed we were enemies then. But before, when we were a team. Remember, your horse threw you, and I saved you from gettin' killed? Risked my life to go back for you."

He had forgotten that incident until now, but it was not an event he would have used in Allan's defense. "I would not have needed saving if you hadn't led us into a trap. And if you're counting debts, I protected you more often than you realize from the Sheriff."

"Yeah I know, but that was in your best interest."

"_My_ best interest?" he said, brows raised in disbelief. "I might have sent a message to Hood every time I had something planned. Would have saved you the trouble."

As usual, Allan shook off the accusation, instead offering him an unexpected bit of advice, "You should try lettin' up for a few, Guy. It might give people a chance to like you."

The absurdity of this made him laugh sharply. Little John looked up, while Much scowled at them both.

"Nah really, you're not the worst ever," Allan added blithely.

Guy turned away, shaking his head. He distinctly remembered Allan singing a different tune several months ago when he had been a prisoner of the gang, and Tuck had originally proposed that Guy should join with them against the Sheriff. The monk's offer had been decried by Much, Little John, and Allan included. Regardless of their current alliance, he had trouble understanding why Allan was trying to be friendly. Then a thought struck him.

He turned to look closely at him. "I hope you're not expecting me to pay you to be on my side again."

"'Course not," Allan said with an affronted laugh, which Guy had come to recognize was practically an admission of guilt.

"Because I'm as poor as you are now." He was sure that would put a stop to the nonsense.

Allan looked at him appraisingly. "Oh...yeah. I figured as much."

"Well now you are assured of it," Guy said with finality.

Much had been fretting around the camp, gathering things from storage for use in the morning meal. Distracted by Allan, he did not notice Much was now staring down at them both, pointing a ladle in his direction, as if in challenge.

"Why are you even here?" Much asked aggressively. It appeared having a night to think it over had not made it any more tolerable to Robin's little right hand man.

"There's nowhere else I need to be," Guy answered simply. He felt no need to add he would be captured or killed almost anywhere he went.

"Nowhere is better than here, as far as I'm concerned," Much countered.

"I would normally agree, but your _master_ had other ideas."

Much took offense at the term, despite often using it himself. "I am a free man, thank you. I am here because I _choose_ to help him."

Guy snorted. "You wouldn't know what to do without him. You're still enslaved to him, you just don't _mind_ it."

He had struck a nerve, judging by the indignant look he received, but the man proved equally capable of cutting to the bone. Eyes narrowing spitefully, Much accused, "I'm not surprised you have trouble recognizing genuine loyalty, considering all you ever had was your twisted relationship with Sheriff Vaisey."

A twinge of pain ran through his thigh at the mention of the name. It had been the last place Vaisey had wounded him, and an occasional dull reminder would flare at the site the dagger had lodged. But at least _that_ wound had healed. His years with the Sheriff left scars in his mind that were more gruesome, and those in his heart went deeper still. It was far more complicated than the canine-like devotion Much had for Robin, but then he could hardly expect the simpleton to understand.

"If you would like, I'll show you how _loyal_ I was to him in the end." Guy made no move, but his eyes threatened violence.

Little John had been watching them silently, but now roused himself, looking like a bear who was tired of people stomping above its den.

"Let 'im be." The directive was aimed neither at Much, nor Guy in particular, but rather was a warning to both. Much backed off, lowering the ladle, though he was not done speaking his mind.

"I'm not afraid to say it. I have no doubt you will betray us as soon as you find a better offer. You've done it to everyone who ever trusted you."

He stared unblinkingly at Much until the man came close to drawing his sword in anticipation of a fight. But instead of denying it, Guy said evenly, "You're right."

"See, he admits it!" Much pointed wildly at him, as if the moment might evaporate before anyone else could appreciate it.

Allan finally spoke up, "Robin thinks it will be different this time."

"Sometimes Robin _thinks_ too much," Much said, exasperated. "My thinking is a little more simple, and I…"

"A little?" Allan interjected.

Guy looked up in time to see Much glare at Allan.

"Sorry mate, but you walked into that one," Allan grinned.

Much ignored him. "What no one realizes is that it was _my_ voice of reason that saved Robin from more than one _really_ bad idea back in the Holy Land. This is right up there with the worst of those."

When no one said anything, Much forged on vehemently, "Robin seems to think that just because you said some noble words about sacrificing yourself instead of that girl, that you should get a second chance."

Guy was momentarily confused by the subject. He presumed Much was referring to Meg, the girl his sister had sentenced to die with him. He had never considered his actions at his own execution might have impressed Robin, nor would he have cared.

"Wouldn't listen when I pointed out you were going to die anyway, and it was just to make yourself look good before you did," Much went on, but Guy was no longer listening.

He had pushed the events that led to Meg's death to the back of his mind. She had been little older than a child. His principles had been in ruins for longer than she had been alive, yet she risked her life to help him.

He closed his eyes, remembering her far too innocent face. She should have left him to die, untouched by sympathy.

"So who _was_ that woman to you?" Allan questioned. Had Allan been watching more closely, he might have seen a flicker of regret momentarily soften sharp features. Instead, he only caught the reflected spark of firelight as Guy's eyes shot open.

"No one," he said, unwilling to discuss it.

"Must have been someone. You were tryin' to save her."

"No one I want to discuss with you," Guy clarified.

"Just thought you might want a chance to talk about her," Allan continued to wheedle.

An irritated stare was his only reply.

"A'right then, forget it."

"Don't worry, Allan," Much said caustically, "I'm sure he's already forgotten her, along with Marian, Annie, and all the other victims he's ever..."

"Much!" Little John growled. "This will _not_ help."

Like a raven hassled by rooks, Guy was tired of passively accepting their scorn. Much's incessant pecking was going to cause bloodshed if he was forced to wait any longer for Hood's return.

Rising from the bench, he addressed Little John, "When Robin returns, tell him I have information he might be interested in."

"Where are you going?" Much said, suddenly alarmed.

"Wherever I feel like," he replied, striding to the entrance of the camp.

With a determination likely fueled by fear of betrayal, the shorter man planted himself in his path. Guy did not wish to fight this early in the morning, but neither had he sunk low enough to allow the weasel to order him about. Summoning the last of his patience, he refrained from drawing his sword, and said as reasonably as he could, "Move."

Much looked expectantly at Little John, and Guy knew what was on his mind.

"If you try to stop me, you better make it permanent," he warned him.

But the bear did not stir. Instead John sighed. Perhaps thinking of the debt he owed him, he said, "Let him go."

"This is not a good idea! Robin would not want him to leave." Much looked to Allan, but he only shrugged.

"I don't recall Robin sayin' we had to keep watch on him."

Without support, Much's convictions slipped, and Guy brushed past him unhindered.

"Fine," he heard Much shout shrilly after him, "but don't lead an army back here!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Clearing of the Mind (2/2)  
><strong>Characters: <strong> Guy, Tuck (mentions Marian, Meg)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Up to season 3, episode 11  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Main characters owned by the BBC and Tiger Aspect. I get nothing out of this except an unhealthy enjoyment!  
><strong>Chapter Summary:<strong> _After taking as much as he can of Much, Guy goes looking for solace in solitude, but finds the threat of salvation is ever present. This story references part of my previous work, in particular Chapter 3 and Chapter 4 of "In the Devil's Thrall", and the flashback to Guy's uncle in "Broken Bonds"._

Chapter II

Ten yards from the entrance to the outlaws' shelter, Guy spotted a knife on the ground, point lodged neatly in the root of a tree. He was not certain, but it appeared to mark the ghost of a trail. Leaving the weapon where it lay, he headed east along the narrow path. It was no more than a slight disturbance in the monotony of bracken, but even the occasional scratch of thorns was less irritating than Much's admonishments.

Oak and elm fought for dominance on each side of the trail, clawing at him as he crunched through their discarded leaves. He kept to a brisk pace, annoyed at himself for having been riled over nothing but words. He should have been able to take a jab or two without fleeing like a speared boar. After all, he'd had years of practice biting his tongue in the presence of the Sheriff. But he would have normally dealt with insults from peasants like Much in a manner not acceptable in present company. Throughout his life, violence had been a shortcut to resolution, but if he were to stay with these men any longer, he would need to find an alternative route.

Brushing aside a cobweb, he watched the dispossessed spider retreat along its last silken thread. So simple it was, to destroy the complex structure. But the spider would rebuild its home overnight. He had no such abilities. Having once been so sure of his purpose, driven always to improve—or at least cling to—his status, in the end it had been torn away.

His range of options had narrowed to a bodkin's point: To leave the country, and try to start anew, or fight—and more than likely die—in the land of his father's people. Even now, he could take one of the horses they had returned with from York, and leave Hood and his men for good. But he knew he had no real choice. His time abroad taught him that misery lived everywhere. There was no reason to go far and wide to find it. What goals were left to him would lead to the destruction of the last of his house. But whether that meant his sister, or himself, he was less certain.

The overcast forest was a dreary backdrop to his sombre thoughts. Trudging along with eyes downcast, he was surprised when the path suddenly opened out into a clearing. The view had been obscured by a boulder nearly blocking the trail, but once past it, he could see the border of trees extended in a circular shape, roughly fifty yards across. The ground dipped down from the tree-line to form a shallow bowl of tawny grass. Near the center of the circle stood the lightening-blasted carcass of a birch tree. Perhaps heeding the warning, no saplings had attempted to recolonize the space. He saw no particular reason why the area had been cleared, until he noticed the stones; all similar to the one he stood beside, each one several feet taller than he was, and spaced at regular intervals around the circle. They were massive, though unadorned, but if he was not mistaken, each marked a direction. He had entered the clearing from the western point.

A wind rattled through the dried grass, but the chill he felt was unrelated to the weather. This place was no natural creation. The land had been reorganized to suit some ritual purpose. As a boy, he heard rumors of a site in the woods which pagans still worshiped at. Upon inquiry, his mother had stated firmly, "They are soulless." Her tone implied he should not pursue the matter. Despite a few clandestine attempts, he never came close to finding it. It was ironic to have finally arrived at the location after so long, now that he had become nearly soulless himself. But those who originally shifted the stones into place were long gone, their beliefs crushed into dust like their bones.

A branch snapped thirty yards to his left. He froze, eyes tracking to the spot. Perhaps it had been hasty thinking the place deserted. If it _was_ an enemy, he would have one chance to get away and warn the camp. But the brown form that emerged from the trees was not human. As the peak of the deer's sloping shoulders moved into sight above the grass, he wondered how long it would take to notice him. Had he been Robin, or one of his men, he would have been prepared to shoot it, but one could hardly kill a deer with only a sword.

Instead, he felt a small sense of victory in spotting it before it saw him. The buck's head came up sharply, ears flicking as it turned to face him. After the span of several heartbeats, it lowered its head to resume grazing. Its reaction left him feeling vaguely disappointed. Either the animal was nearly blind, or had dismissed him as nonthreatening. He felt a petty urge to scare it, but restrained himself, continuing to watch the subtleties of the deer's movements, both delicate and loud in the dried brush.

He remained at the mouth of the trail, allowing the bold creature to wander further into the clearing. The sun had successfully banished the clouds, at least for a while, and colors appeared which were previously hidden. The red of the deer's coat became more pronounced, as did the berries it was picking off shrubs at the forest's edge. Leaning against the ancient stone, the dark hue of his garments absorbed the sun's warmth, and he realized it was not unpleasant sharing space with the buck, without the bother of trying to kill it. Although, if one of the outlaws shot it for supper, he would shed no tears. A truce between enemies did not change the fact you were enemies, as he was reminded each time he looked into the faces of his new companions.

The sun had crawled higher in the sky by the time the hart left the clearing. It _had_ known he was there, occasionally stopping to look at him. The wind began to strengthen, dredging shallow pathways through the grass, and a dark thickness to the clouds told him winter was fast approaching. As the sky resumed its overcast shade, the thousand points of contrast and color dulled to grey. Even with the threat of worsening weather, there was a feeling of calm here which he was loath to leave. It was the closest he had come to a sense of peace in a long while. But he knew he should return to camp before they decided he had betrayed them. Much would need little tinder to start that fire again.

Turning to head back along the path, he was startled by the sight of Brother Tuck sitting on a rock ten paces away, grey robes blending into the surrounding brush.

"God!" Guy exclaimed, stepping back reflexively.

The monk smiled. "Flattering, but not quite."

Feeling as if he had been the deer all along, he asked angrily, "Were you tasked to follow me?"

Tuck's arms remained folded over his chest, but his tone was placating, "Our destinations were the same. I did not want to disrupt you, but it is _you_ who invaded my glade. I come often to pray, and ask God for guidance."

"Going to ask what he thought of me being among you?" Guy asked peevishly.

"Of that, I think I already have an idea," Tuck answered with infuriating confidence.

He resented being considered some type of moral trophy. "I'm not here to be part of your agenda," he said contemptuously. "My motivation is revenge, not charity."

The priest remained on his rocky perch, unsurprised by the revelation. "I have always believed that, for good or for ill, people are the greatest weapons one can wield, but redeeming a sinner's heart is the greatest victory. I have not given up on yours yet."

Guy wanted even less to be his personal challenge. "What I've done cannot be forgiven."

"Then you are in luck, as it is not my job to forgive," Tuck said merrily. "Only God can do that."

"_That_ will not happen," Guy stated bitterly.

"It won't, if you insist on being certain about it," the monk commented, a hint of patronizing impatience creeping into his voice. "I cannot know the mind of God, though I have devoted my life to understanding Him better. It is ultimately the Lord's decision to pardon the sins of His children." He left his seat on the rock to stand before Guy, his serenity giving way to bold self-assurance. "But let us say, a little effort on your part could not hurt." Tuck looked pointedly at him, then moved toward the center of the glade, leaving him to stare at the empty rock.

Guy knew he should not be drawn into the argument, but he hated the simplicity with which the clergyman summed up the fate of his soul. Teeth clenching, he asked viciously, "What kind of God would forgive someone like me?"

"The same one that created someone like you," Tuck replied, in a way which made him turn around.

The monk cut through the long grass to stand beside the dead birch tree. "Take this place for instance. You have noticed the stones? Long ago they were witnesses to blood sacrifice. Some of animal. More of human. All for the greed of pagan gods. This was a place of fear."

Guy realized he may have been wrong earlier. Perhaps, in this place of death and pain, he had mistaken an unholy affinity for a sense of peace. Both he and the stones had seen many needless sacrifices to unworthy masters.

Tuck continued, "But I can appreciate its beauty now, even if the purpose was once 'ungodly', because nothing is ever truly without God. There is reason for all creation." He touched a green vine growing on the hollowed trunk. "Even death gives rise to life."

Guy did not see how this related to him. "So, I'm like a choking vine that lives off the destruction of other things? How inspiring," he concluded darkly. Perhaps the old gods of the pagans would have appreciated his particular contributions to society, but he was certain the one he had been raised to fear had different expectations.

Tuck shook his head and laughed, as if amused by his obstinacy. "You are thinking too literally. Everything has purpose. Even the most unpleasant events are sometimes necessary. The Maker puts pitfalls in our path as challenges to the soul."

"I've fallen into them all," Guy muttered.

"Yet the test is whether or not we can rise from them," Tuck said encouragingly.

The clearing was beginning to feel like an arena in which he would have to defeat Tuck's logic before being allowed to leave. But Guy was already weary of defending his standpoint. "Those who fell with me will never rise," he said, almost inaudible over the rising wind.

_Marian._ It always came back to her. No matter where, or when. There was never any spoken curse, just a look of shock and pain that would live in his mind until it ceased to think. Of all those he killed, she was the only one who haunted him.

Glancing up, he caught the look in the monk's eyes. Tuck believed he knew the worst of it, and perhaps Marian's death was, but there was ever so much more.

"You do not know half of what I've done," he said grimly. If asked, he could tell of things that might break the priest's resolve to restore him.

But the monk was sly, adopting a different tactic. "And would you commit those sins again, do those things again?" he asked, eyes searching Guy's own.

The idea was abhorrent, though he supposed that was the intention. But he remained silent, forcing Tuck to try harder to elicit whatever it was he wanted to hear.

"You were led astray," Tuck stated, likely thinking of the old Sheriff.

"That is not true," Guy countered. "I walked that path willingly." Indeed, the Sheriff may have brought out the worst in him, but Vaisey only nurtured a beast born long before.

Much once accused him of having no honor, but it had not always been true. His descent began while still a squire to his uncle in France. As a lieutenant of the crown, his uncle took it as his right to prey on the weak, suffering no opinions to the contrary. Under his command, Guy watched knights willingly, or by order, committing atrocities against unarmed men and women, young and old alike. Neither saint nor sinner were spared the wrath of his uncle's army. As a young man, he felt no desire to commit such wanton behavior, but he was complicit in it regardless. Struggling to understand how such things could be acceptable, he was forced to concede there must be something categorically different between himself and the man who was blinded, or the woman branded. In response to cruelty he could not control, his morals had been cast off, like leaves torn from a dying tree. What remained was bare and twisted, yet he felt only relief at the loss.

He did not elaborate on his past to the preacher, but said simply, "I _had_ a choice, to remain powerless, and become a victim rather than a victor. But instead, I began to believe the suffering of others was a necessity." He expected a reprisal for the admission, but Tuck was unexpectedly positive.

"Good! You begin to see," he said triumphantly. "When you stop making excuses for what you do, and accept the truth of your actions, you gain power. _That_ is true power, not what someone can give or take from you!"

Guy's features twisted in a incredulous grimace. He would not accept that one could avoid the misery of life just by thinking of it differently. "That is an ideal, monk, not reality!" he shouted, apathy burning away like mist in the morning. "Ideals did not save my parents from being killed by a peasant mob. No, all they had were a son and daughter who could do nothing but stand and watch! And where was the power of this idealism when my noble uncle had a dozen clergymen drawn and quartered in their own church, all because they provided sanctuary to those who spoke against the crown? Not one of the bloody knights there even whispered a protest!"

Echos of agonies witnessed long ago lapped at the edge of his mind, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he tore at one of the most tender scars. "Ideals were all Marian cared about, but it did not stop me from..." Swallowing, he covered his face with a hand, unable to say what he had seen, and done.

"Tell me," Tuck commanded softly. His voice sounded concerned, but this was not the first time the man had infiltrated his thoughts, making him experience that moment again. The feelings attacked more swiftly this time, a mixture of hate and loss, jealousy and shame. He raised his arm defensively, though the monk had done nothing threatening.

"No! You know enough."

"I know you killed the woman you loved," Tuck said quietly.

"That I did," he agreed callously, in a way that hid the burden of the omission.

Surprisingly, Tuck did not linger on it. "But you saved another. Robin told me of what you did in Nottingham. You were willing to die in place of a woman."

"I had nothing to lose." The thought had been Much's, but he adopted it for simplicity's sake.

"You could have spent those moments in plea for your own life. Isabella is your sister, you might have appealed to her somehow."

Guy laughed mirthlessly at the idea. "She is _my_ sister. I know better than to waste my last breath seeking pity."

"Yet you humbled yourself to procure mercy for the girl," Tuck pointed out.

"They were words, nothing more," Guy said, almost convincing himself. The wind had died down, and a cold rain was beginning to fall. He retreated further under the shelter of the trees, his back against the pagan stone. "Little good it did," he added sullenly. It had not been raining when Meg died in his arms, yet he recalled glistening drops falling upon her face, warm as blood.

Tuck would not let the matter lie. "In time, you may find the deed was of greater benefit than you realize."

He did not understand what that meant. There was no point beyond her death.

As if his bewilderment were obvious, Tuck continued, "You have already taken the first step on the path of redemption."

Guy closed his eyes, wondering momentarily if that could be true. But despite the monk's arguments, it remained untenable. "Do not expect me to believe that one selfless thing done in a lifetime of transgression matters to anyone or anything."

"Maybe not," Tuck granted him, "but your life has not yet come to an end, despite your heedless treatment of it. Perhaps there is reason for that."

He surmised the whole conversation was only a means for Tuck to convince him to do what he required. What better way to keep him in line than with promises of intangible rewards? But he had listened long enough to empty words.

"So simple it is, to tell me I can find my way back. How can you know, you who have never strayed so far?" he asked harshly.

Tuck did not answer immediately, looking instead to the dark eastern sky. When he finally spoke, his strong voice faltered, "You think I am without memories I would rather not revisit? Without a shame I find hard to bear?" Standing in the middle of the field, rain coursing down his face, the priest seemed to be struggling with something even his assertions could not subdue. "You would be very wrong, my friend."

"What could you possibly have done that could compare?" Guy demanded, hoping the skeptical tone masked his growing curiosity.

Though only yards away, Tuck spoke as if from a great distance. "Perhaps I will tell you someday."

"Not so easy to confess, is it?" he remarked, with little trace of sympathy.

"Sometimes it is the most challenging thing we can do," the monk admitted.

"Then it appears," he concluded, "you are no more than a sinner telling me to be a saint." He felt slightly vindicated.

Wiping the rain from his eyes with a sleeve, Tuck made his way back to the tree-line. "I would rather think of myself as a guide. I _have_ been part of the darkness, and the light. It is possible to acknowledge the one, while moving toward the other." He put his hand on the stone Guy was huddled next to. Wisps of steam emanated from the monolith's sun-heated surface into the rain-chilled air. "It is men who deny their own failings that we must fear, not those who overcome them."

Guy wondered if Marian once believed he could become one of these men reborn. Perhaps that was why she never feared him. But she had been wrong. Denial had proven a far more effective defense than sword and shield. Why should he bother discarding it now, after having lost all inspiration for which to change?

Sensing his reluctance, Tuck said, "Come. Give me your hand."

Conflict welled within him. The monk was offering him something, some opportunity he might never get again. It was a chance to trust, to bridge the chasm between himself and the rest of humanity. But each time he let others see beyond the surface, it was he who had suffered for it. So he stood motionless, unable to let go of suspicion. In response, Tuck moved closer, making the distance less, until he felt foolish for being incapable of doing this simple thing.

With a grumbling breath, he gave up his hand, as if it meant nothing. The priest took it gently, not fooled by his pretense of indifference. While Tuck looked closely at it, Guy realized it was the same one burned by the vitriol the monk had used on him, in an attempt to glean information he had not possessed. Eyes narrowing, his hand clenched involuntarily at the memory of the encounter.

Tuck held firm, thumb brushing over the scar, acknowledging the past. The priest looked at him earnestly. "Can you forgive?"

Guy blinked, surprised at the unexpected question. He had been nearly incapable of it so far. Yet it implied that if he hoped to receive forgiveness, he must first be able to give it. He wanted to answer truthfully, but was afraid he might not get his hand back if he did so.

"What does it matter?" he asked, sounding more flippant than he intended.

"It does matter!" Tuck's voice grew stern. "It is the difference between salvation and damnation! You think it too late, but that is not so. Neither of us would be here now if _I_ did not believe we get more than one chance. I would have let Robin send you to hell long ago," he growled.

The grip on his hand never tightened, but the intensity in Tuck's eyes warned him the monk could carry out the threat himself, if he had a mind to it. Instead, he put his other hand under Guy's fist, flattening his palm against it, then curling it closed again. When Tuck let go, he realized he now held something made of metal.

"That may help," Tuck said, stepping away.

He unclenched his fist from around the object. It was a cross. The same one he had stared at while wishing for nothing less than proof of Robin Hood's death, so many months ago. His mouth threatened a smirk, but he tried hard to repress the sarcastic thoughts which came so easily. He was not used to anyone caring. Forgiveness would be a challenge, but he accepted the token as a mark of good faith between them.

Tuck nodded approvingly. "I understand our motives are not the same. I don't expect you to change a lifetime of habit in a few days. All I ask is that you watch us. See what we do. It is risky, and there is often little reward except hounds at our heels, and more cries for help. But in time, you begin to feel the joy which you bring others. I promise you, the glory of giving is far more satisfying than power and wealth."

"I'll take your word for it," Guy said noncommittally. He had trouble imagining himself becoming a martyr for something he did not even care about. But he did not flinch when the monk touched his shoulder in what felt, suspiciously, like camaraderie.

"Now, there is an errand you can help me attend to," Tuck proposed, voice resuming its jovial tone. "We must see to our four-legged guests. Those horses you brought back yesterday will have eaten everything within their reach. There's a creek not too far away where we can water them." He started back down the trail, without bothering to check if the most reluctant member of his flock was following. Guy watched him disappearing into the forest.

He hesitated, looking again at the dead tree, its white bark darkened by age. Rain could wash away blood, but how many seasons had it taken for time to scour the evil from this place? Had it ever truly departed? Likewise, Tuck's words had done their best to cleanse his mind, but it would take more than sentiment to salvage his soul.

_He's one of us,_ Robin had said, though they had both known the statement was far from fact. And yet, he knew Marian would have wanted it this way. She would still expect him to become what he never could while she was alive. Having taken her life, the least he could do was try to resurrect the noble man he had let die long ago.

Turning away from the clearing, he tucked the cross into his belt, and followed in the monk's footsteps.

~Fin~


End file.
